<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I’m Closing My Eyes by Aristocraticbloodlust</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479269">I’m Closing My Eyes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocraticbloodlust/pseuds/Aristocraticbloodlust'>Aristocraticbloodlust</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Ball Z</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adjusting to new feelings isn’t easy, Bulma just wants to love him but he never makes any fucking thing easy, F/M, I love them both, Vegeta needs a therapist, Was feeling sentimental when I wrote this, troll doll bastard and blue hair bitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:00:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocraticbloodlust/pseuds/Aristocraticbloodlust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a sword that tears through flesh and cleanses anything we’ve ever clung to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bulma Briefs/Vegeta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I’m Closing My Eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He is battle hardened. His soul spun up of black tar and ivory stone.</p><p>She stands in the way. The light churns and twists, pulls him in, he coils on his back and flips back and forth between them to get away.</p><p> But when she touches him, he’s disintegrated into flames. Her angel wings wrap around his arms and love him. It yanks the tears from his eyes, puts him in the blender of heaven, grinds the hell up and spits it out. Breathing life into his mouth, shotgunning down the esophagus. An express train, to the end of the time.</p><p>In her body, there’s an epicenter. Where the moon penetrates the sky, where the stars are splatters of it’s love fluids all over the dark blue skin. If he closes his eyes fast enough, he can maybe feel the exact moment her little hands leave its slimy trail of touch across his back and when she sucks in her precious breaths. Before becoming one.</p><p>Changing. The whole ground is cracking open, the whole ground wants to kill them all in kindness. Peeling at the eyelids, he wants his pupils to be the ones that survive. He wants his rose tinted contacts off now. He wants them off, because from where he’s looking-even the largest magnifying glass can’t show him where the lines start and where they end. But the feeling is inescapable, the last thing he wants his for her to undress him underneath the epidermis with her temper, her body. The words she speaks when she’s feeling warm inside and says it’s because of him. </p><p>No salvation will help him. He can’t pray to make it go away, the light rapes him everyday. Truly, its an enigma.<br/>
The mirroring image of himself in the bathroom mirror. The only clear image of anything fathomable, but lately it gets too difficult to spot the centipedes and vipers crawling from the pit of his ribcage through scars a life before once gifted. He looks and searches for his friend, but only finds the droplets of her corruption staining the surface. </p><p>He doesn’t want to be a glass castle. He doesn’t want her to be the princess he whisks away. Not the man who she chooses to be her slave of love.<br/>
Fighting against it seems to reward him with knives in his gullet, where the emotions perform chokeholds and blood eagles on him anytime he runs at it with fists aimed for the killing blow. Her tears hurt the worst when they are because of him. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be shackled in paradise. </p><p>At night, she crawls into his chest and plants her head down. Then he’ll wonder why he chose to come with her. Then their son will wail in the other room, she’ll get up and he’ll remember the image of the older one with a hole in him coughing up fountains of red. Rolling over to lay on his side away from the door, she always comes back and fills the space. </p><p>If clocks stop in her wake, he wonders when this’ll all end. But with each cycle of the days, he can’t find desperation to sink teeth into.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>